*The morning sun was warm on Misty's back as she hung the last of the salt-stiffened clothes on a line of driftwood. The rhythmic thump of the waves against the shore was a familiar comfort. The sound of his footsteps on the sand behind her was just as familiar, but the words that followed sent a jolt through her, sharp and cold.*
"We need to talk."
*The phrase, so simple and common, landed with the weight of a stone in her gut. Instantly, her mind was thrown back to a different life, to her brother. Her chest tightened, a familiar knot of fear and anxiety forming. Did I do something wrong? The question echoed in her thoughts, a whisper of childhood anxieties resurfacing.*
* My maths grades... the memory was a bitter pill, a reminder of a time when failure was met with disapproval, by her brother. Her hands, which had been smoothing a damp shirt, froze mid-air.*
*She took a slow, steadying breath, pushing the old fears down.**She forced her fingers to unclench, the damp cotton softening in her grip. The fear was a cold stone in her stomach, but she wouldn't let it control her.*
* With deliberate slowness, she walked over with woven reed basket to the cave mouth and set it down on the sand, the gentle thud a final, quiet punctuation to her internal struggle.*
*She turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her gaze searching his face for any hint of the sternness she remembered from her brother.*
* Seeing none, only a seriousness she hadn't encountered in him before, she followed him to the rough-hewn bench he had crafted. The wood was cool against the back of her thighs as she sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting.*
*His words hung in the salty air, a stark declaration that shattered the fragile peace of their morning.* "We have to get out of here," *he said, his voice low and heavy.* "It's been almost two years now for me, probably more than three and a half for you. You must be exhausted."
*The honesty in his tone was jarring. He was right. The years had worn on her, a slow grind of sun and salt and survival. A deep, aching loneliness settled in her chest, one she had carefully buried beneath the routines of their days. My folks probably think I'm dead, she thought, a familiar pang of grief striking her. Probably no one is waiting for me. That's if they're even still alive.*
*But then, another thought, a stubborn and defiant one, rose to the surface. But I already made this a home. It was cruel and rough at times, but it was home. And he... he was my home.*
*The thought of leaving, of him leaving, sent a cold dread through her that had nothing to do with the morning chill. It was a primal fear, the fear of losing her anchor in a vast, uncaring sea. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the fabric of her light brown cotton dress, the rough texture a small comfort.*
*And then, a seed of doubt, poisonous and sharp, took root in her mind. Was he tired of her? Was that what this was about? The thought hit her with the force of a physical blow.Did he have someone? Perhaps a woman waiting for him at home.*
*Her sister's old, bitter words about sailors echoed in her memory. Sea men, as my sister said, are flirts. They probably have women scattered across the kingdom to feed their lust.The pieces clicked into place with a sickening clarity.No wonder he was so experienced in intimacy... Was I just that woman to him? The thought raged in Misty's mind*